8
by partiallyyours
Summary: Before the wedding, Mr. Carson & Mrs. Hughes have a disagreement.
1. Chapter 1

He looked up at the sharp rap on his door. It wasn't Mrs. Hughes as he'd hoped. Disappointment briefly curled down the corners of his mouth. But his letdown was forgotten completely when he saw the dessert in Mrs. Patmore's hand.

"I thought I might bring you a piece before you headed up for the night."

Smiling as he set down his pen, he said,

"I thought I smelled your apple tart. Thank you."

As he accepted the confection, he nodded to a chair in front of his desk.

"Don't mind if I do," she said. A relieved sigh escaped her as she sat.

"And clotted cream?" He tilted his head to the side, a friendly question in his eyes.

She chuckled.

"You can call it an engagement present if you like."

He grunted happily as he took a bite.

After a few moments of comfortable silence, she spoke.

"So you two still haven't settled the location for the reception, I take it?"

"Well, no, not precisely," he answered. He smiled softly then, almost indulgently, she thought. She fought the urge to roll her eyes. "But we'll come to an agreement soon. We always do."

In fact, he was certain that he could convince his bride-to-be to come round to his way of thinking. She wanted the reception at the school. He wanted it at Downton. They'd been arguing for days. Even though she cited the fact that she didn't want to have the staff at Downton working at her wedding, he guessed that she didn't feel strongly enough about it to refuse him.

Nodding at his statement, she watched him take another bite.

"You know she told me about her sister. Becky," she said.

He looked at her, his brow knitted. Most likely Mrs. Hughes told Mrs. Patmore the details of his proposal: the doomed house hunt, her sad tale, and his eventual proposal on Christmas Eve. A pang of guilt reverberated through him at that. He still hadn't made it clear to her that the true reason for his proposal had nothing to do with Becky, or saving her, or companionship. He loved her desperately. He adored her, in fact. It was possible...probable, more like... that she wasn't aware of how deep his affection for her ran. He hoped that that particular conversation might keep until after their wedding. Truthfully, he hoped that they would never need to have that conversation at all. That she would be able to figure it out on her own. Be able to read his mind somehow. Like she always did.

"Do you know," she said slowly, "how old she was when she understood what it meant to have a sister like Becky?"

Bewildered at the sudden shift of atmosphere, his plate fell a bit.

She went on.

"How old do you think she was when she knew that she would be responsible for another person for the whole of her life? That she would, most likely, never have a family-children, mind you-of her own? That no one would ever take care of her? That she would always be the one to take care of everyone else?"

She paused. His eyebrows were nearly to his hairline.

"She never asks for anything, Mr. Carson, because there has never been anyone in a position to give her anything. Her whole life has always been about what she could give others."

Dread began to fill him and his eyes glistened.

"Now she never said any of this to me, mind. She doesn't complain. She's only ever happy when she talks about you. But I can read between the lines with the best of them."

She slapped her hands on her knees with a falsely jovial finality. She stood and stepped to his desk.

"It's eight, by the way," she said.

His brow furrowed in confusion.

"She was eight years old. When she knew."

And with that she whisked the barely touched apple tart out of his hands and swept out of the room.

He sat for long minutes, staring at the door after she left.


	2. Chapter 2

She nearly missed the light underneath his door. Certain that he hadn't waited up until the early hours of the morning for her, she only happened to glance at the soft beams peaking out from the uneven crack at the floor. So, instead of making her way up the stairs that seemed to get higher every year, she quietly turned the doorknob to his pantry. To find him sleeping in his chair, as she'd suspected. It had been happening more and more often since their engagement. He waited for her. Rather than simply retiring after the work was done, he waited. To say goodnight. No matter how many times she told him he didn't need to. That she would see him in the morning.

He was ever polite, never laying an improper finger on her. Though he did take her hand one evening not so long before that night. It was only a brief squeeze. He had let her go with a cough. She'd looked up at him with a smile that made him flush for reasons he couldn't possibly have named were he to have had hot coals applied to his feet.

Softly, she approached him. A feather light hand rested on the back of his chair for balance as she reached over him to turn off the lamp that held his room in a welcoming glow. Just before the switch turned in her hand, she glanced down. And saw him gazing up at her with a look that did strange things to her insides.

With the light down, it took a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the dark. When they did, she could see that he still looked up at her. His hand had crossed up and over to reach for hers.

"Mrs. Hughes," he rumbled.

Some instinct told her that she wouldn't be able to speak. So she made a small, politely inquiring sound.

"I'm sorry," he said.

She was still standing somewhat awkwardly over him. And she didn't understand what he was apologizing for. Before she could ask, he saw the uncertainty in her.

"We'll have the reception at the school," he said.

A quick sigh and a wry smile later, she answered.

"All right. Thank you, Mr. Carson. I do appreciate it. Though I am curious to know what's brought on your sudden change of heart."

She thought she might have to hold down her vomit if it had anything to do with Lady Mary changing his mind for him.

He considered telling her everything. But decided that simple was best for now.

"I suppose I could say that you are not the only one who is capable of making me see sense."

Her face changed to reflect a mild combination of disgust and derision.

In a blessed frame of mind, he could tell what she was thinking and decided further explanation was necessary.

"Mrs. Patmore," he said.

And she smiled then.

He hadn't known how very unsettled he had been until she had smiled. All was right again with his world. What power the woman had over him. And he begrudged her not one bit of it.

Sitting up straighter in his chair, he guided her to stand in front of him. He burned with the need to hear her accept his apology.

He held both of her hands in his as his earnest eyes tried to make her see his sincerity. He longed to tell her how he loved her. But, to a man of his time and nature, the words did not come easily.

"Mrs. Hughes. I am truly sorry to be any sort of...trial for you." His voice was rough. And if the moon hadn't been full, she wouldn't have seen the tear slip down his face.

In a move too sudden for him to fully appreciate, she stepped between his knees and sat lightly on one of thighs. Her one hand rested on his cheek. From the instant she'd seen it, she ached with the desire to wipe his tear away. And she did. She'd placed her own cheek against his other. And she whispered,

"Oh, Mr. Carson."

What those few words did to him! There wasn't anything she could have called him, anything she could have said, that would have been more intimate than the way she said his name. Her voice was unsteady yet controlled at the same time. The syllables seemed to slip over his skin, chilling and warming him simultaneously. He fancied that she could make love to him with her voice alone. He was shocked. And thrilled. They'd never so much as embraced. And here she was. On his lap. His future wife.

When his hands finally caught up with their situation, he placed them at her waist. Thoroughly intoxicated with the liberties he was being allowed, he pressed her close to him.

"You are no trial to me," she affirmed. Affection bled from her tone.

Not quite ready to be forgiven, he shook his head against her delicate cheek. Softly, though. He was terrified of losing this shivering contact with her.

"I am a bully, not fit to be your...husband." And more tears fell from beneath his dark lashes.

She pulled back then. To look at him.

"Enough now," she soothed, her hands on his face. "Would it help to know," she waited until he looked at her again, "that I had no intention of letting you have your way?"

It took longer than he would have liked for her meaning to sink in.

"What do you mean?" he asked, a cautious hint of laughter behind his voice.

"Just what I said," she answered.

He waited to see if she would explain further. She didn't.

"What...I mean...what were you going to do?" he asked. His hands had gone from her waist to her back.

She smiled knowingly and her eyes searched his face. She was clearly trying to make it seem as though she were making a decision.

"I think," she drawled carefully as she looked up to the ceiling, "that I will save my plan for another time."

He blinked.

"You...are...a plotting minx!"

That fact that he had whispered this would-be insult into the skin of her neck had changed the meaning of it entirely.

She really should have come up with a response, she thought later, but his lips were stealing away her thoughts. They roamed gently along the valley of her neck. He waited for her to sigh gratefully before deciding to taste her lips for the first time. She met him as an equal, her lips untrained but eager. And, for the first time in either of their lives, they were free to hold and caress the one person on the earth who they loved more than anything.

While he held her, he realized that the woman he loved needed no special, kid glove treatment. She would always get the better of him. Hell, she'd _made_ the better of him. Silently, he did vow to be more aware of his mulish, inconsiderate ways. He would spoil his wife, though she did not need it. And perhaps, every now and then, he might get the better of her. As when, that night, he took her bottom lip suddenly into his mouth and sliced his tongue across it. She'd cried out in surprise and passion.

They both glanced guiltily at the door.

"Sorry," she laughed in a quick whisper.

"It's all right, my darling," fake condescension dripped from his words. "I forgive you."

She started to laugh before he kissed her again. And it was a long while before either of them spoke again.


End file.
